Phase II.—The Private Secretary
The snow lingered. Though hoses washed it out of the highways, in every side street great mounds lay unmelted, and the park was dingily white. Reggie shivered as he got out of his car in Scotland Yard, and he scurried upstairs and put himself as close as he could to Lomas's fire—ousting Superintendent Bell.
"I'm waiting for you," said Lomas quietly. "There's a new fact. Three thousand pounds has been paid into Sandford's account. It was handed in over the counter in notes of small amounts yesterday morning. Cashier fancies it was paid in by a stoutish man in glasses—couldn't undertake to identify."
"It's a wicked world, Lomas. That wouldn't matter so much if it was sensible. Some day I will take to crime, just to show you how to do it. Who is Sandford, what is he, that such queer things happen round him?"
"I don't know so much about queer, sir," said Superintendent Bell. "I suppose this three thousand is his share of the swag."
"That's what we're meant to suppose," Reggie agreed. "That's what I resent."
"You mean, why the devil should he have it put in the bank? He must know his account would be
